


Nana Hudson

by MrProphet



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	1. The Electric Landlady

With a university education and little to do with it, I went to work as a maid of all work for my grandmother on the day that she had the electric connected.

“Well now, that’s grand isn’t it?” Nana Hudson said. She flicked the switch and the stairway up to the top floor apartments was flooded with light.

"Very nice, Nana,” I replied.

I thought that I had hidden my doubts well, but Nana Hudson tilted her head on one side like a bird and fixed me with those fierce, penetrating eyes. “You don’t think so?”

“I liked the gas, Nana. These new lights are so hard on the eyes.”

Nana Hudson smiled. “Oh, yes; that’s the way of progress isn’t it, Emmy. Everything new seems harder and colder.”

“Nana?”

Nana shook her head. “Just thinking aloud, Emmy. It’s a habit of the old. Speaking of old, my knees aren’t what they were. Be a lamb and run up to the flat.”

“To the flat?” I asked in awe.

“Yes.”

“To… To 221B?”

“Yes, Emmy. To 221B.” Nana smiled. “It’s just a flat, dear, and we have new lodgers coming in to take residence. I want you to make sure that everything is ready. Check that Mr Briggs took everything with him when he left, and make sure that the lights work.”

I mounted the stairs with a slight tremble in my steps. I had heard so much about this famous address and of course I expected it to appear exactly as in my imagination: thick tobacco smoke hanging in the air, the walls stained with chemicals; the murky gleam of gas lights; V.R. blasted into the wall with a revolver. Just as inevitably, the reality of the situation was a grave disappointment.

Perhaps the furniture was the same as they had used, but the scent which hung in the air was that of rose water and the wallpaper was bright and fresh, and quite free from bullet holes. I flicked the switch by the door and the harsh electric light filled the room. It looked a thoroughly proper and respectable set of rooms, but was utterly without romance.

I walked slowly around the room, seeking some remnant of those heady days of adventure, but found nothing in that sterile glare. It occurred to me then that Mr Sherlock Holmes, wherever life found him now, must approve greatly of electric lights.

There was only one thing that looked out of place. The armchairs were pushed back close to the wall, but there was a narrow gap behind one of them and that too was illuminated by the unforgiving rays of the lamps. In the pool of light there lay a slim, black cylinder which on close examination proved to be a fountain pen with a black, lacquered barrel and gold trim.

I tucked the pen into my apron pocket before I went around the rest of the flat, testing all of the lights. There was nothing else obviously out of place, but there was a slightly unpleasant smell in the bathroom. I nosed around and fancied I traced the smell to the brand new bathtub.

*

“A smell?” Nana asked, shocked.

“Under the bathtub; a sort of sickly-sweet smell. Really very nasty; we’ll need to get it seen to before anyone else moves in.”

Nana shook her head. “For the money I paid them you’d think those plumbers could have done a decent job,” she sighed.

“Oh, and I found this,” I added, producing the fountain pen. “I suppose it must be Mr Briggs’.”

Nana frowned. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, it is.”

“Nana?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“He signed the cheque for his last month’s rent with that pen,” Nana explained, “and then he tucked it into his pocket… and left. He hasn’t been back, to the best of my knowledge.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Help me up the stairs, Emmy dear; I want to take a look at the flat myself.”

“Yes, Nana.”

I helped her up to 221B and watched as she crouched on creaking knees to look underneath the furniture. In the bathroom she leaned close to the bath and examined it critically through an expensive-looking hand lens.

“It is incredible, this electric light,” she mused. “So bright, so incisive; so revealing. Mr Holmes would have approved.”

“I was just thinking that,” I admitted.

Nana smiled up at me. “Help me up girl, and then I need you to make a few telephone calls.”

*

Nana’s requests were somewhat on the strange side. She had always been a little eccentric – mother never had approved of her choice of lodgers – but I was starting to wonder if she hadn’t gone a little soft in the head.

First she had me call the contractors who had carried out the conversion in the flat and get a list of the names of all the workmen who had had anything to do with the work. Then I had to call her solicitor, of all people, and give him the list of the names and a request to call ‘the usual number’.

When I was finished I went back upstairs. The moment I opened the door I walked into a thick cloud of dark, sweet smoke. Fearful that Nana had been caught in a fire I pushed into the room, but the smoke was puffing out from the bowl of a large briar pipe.

“Nana!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps me to concentrate,” Nana Hudson replied. “Or perhaps it is just that the smell stimulates those areas of my brain that were always stimulated when I watched Mr Holmes at work. Whatever the truth of it, a good smoke aids my thought processes.”

“Your thought processes? What are you talking about, Nana?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but the telephone interrupted her. She picked it up. “Marylebone 413,” she said. “Mrs Hudson speaking. You have? Oh, splendid Inspector. And you don’t mind…? Oh, that is kind. Thank you. And when should we expect you? Alright. Goodbye.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Oh, just a friend,” Nana replied. “You’ll meet him soon. We’ll take tea in the parlour in one hour; will you see to it?”

“Of course, Nana,” I replied, “but…”

“No more questions. All will become clear.”

So I went downstairs, rustled up what I could in the way of cake and, when the time came, made a pot of tea and took it up to the parlour in 221B. I had just set down the tray when the bell rang and I went to answer the door.

“Good day, sir,” I said.

“Good day, miss,” the young man replied. He was a tall, upright man; quite handsome, with short, dark hair – very neat and not at all the style I was accustomed to see in my university fellows – and a smart, dark blue suit. With a smooth flourish he produced a crisp white card. “Will you announce me to your mistress? She is expecting me.”

“Of course, Inspector,” I replied, trying to suppress my annoyance at being treated like mere hired help. “Please, come this way.”

He followed me up the stairs and I thought I detected a certain slackening of his pace as we neared the door.

“Are you alright, Inspector?”

“I… Oh, yes. It’s just that I’ve heard so much about this place. It’s probably just like any other house to you.”

I shook my head. “I grew up on these stories as well, Inspector…” I glanced at his card. “Oh.”

He smiled and suddenly he looked a lot less arrogant. “I apologise if I seemed high-handed.” He stepped up to the step where I stood. “Inspector Charles Lestrade, detective and descendent,” he announced. “At your service, ma’am.”

I curtseyed with a giggle which I hoped sounded more exuberant than girlish. “Emily Walker; charmed, sir. But we should go up; Mrs Hudson isn’t well known for her patience.”

“Quite so,” he agreed.

“You know her?”

“We know Mrs Hudson very well at the Yard, Miss Walker.”

“Well, do come this way, Inspector Lestrade.”

*

“Charles!” Nana beamed at the sight of the young inspector and rose to greet him. “It’s good to see you. You have already met my granddaughter; Emmy, this is my godson Charles Lestrade.”

“Your godson?”

Lestrade shrugged apologetically. “Granddaughter?”

“I had hoped to introduce the two of you in more amenable surroundings,” Nana went on, “but is it seems that fate has intervened. Do pour the tea, Emmy dear.”

Lestrade sprang forward. “Please, allow me,” he insisted.

“Always the gentleman, Charles. Did you find Mr Dexter?”

“Yes, Nana Hudson,” Lestrade replied, “but he’s admitting nothing. Without any evidence…”

“Oh, the evidence is – I am ashamed to say – concealed in the bathroom of this flat; the bathroom that Mr Dexter and his associates so recently converted to full internal plumbing. It seems a shame, but you will have to rip out most of their work to reach Mr Briggs’ body.”

“His body!” I was shocked.

“Of course, dear. What did you think was hidden under the bathtub?”

“Dry rot?” I suggested.

“Dry rot? In my house? I think not. Murder, perhaps, but never rot.”

“But how do you know?” I asked. “We haven’t looked. There’s nothing but a bad smell.”

“And a pen,” Mrs Hudson reminded me.

“Oh yes; how could I forget?”

“The pen with which Mr Briggs signed his rent cheque immediately before he left this house for the last time,” she went on. “The pen which then, somehow, found its way back into the flat.”

“And from that you determined that he was buried under the bath and the identity of the killer?”

“The killer had to be one of the contractors; no-one else had access to the flat. Only one man from the firm of building contractors was present at the house when Briggs’ left; their surveyor, Mr Albert Dexter. I can’t say  _why_  he killed Mr Briggs. I would imagine it was one of the usual reasons, money or love, but it would be a mistake to postulate without data.

“My solicitor, Mr Wiggins, made the appropriate enquiries and discovered his identity and location. After that it was simply a matter of informing Charles.”

“And all that from a pen?” I asked again.

Nana Hudson smiled. “And all thanks to electric lighting.”

“Impressive as always, Nana Hudson,” Lestrade said.

“Elementary,” Nana Hudson replied.


	2. Dressing Up

“Inspector Charles Lestrade and Miss Emily Walker,” the footman announced.

“I swear he was sneering at us,” I muttered as we descended the steps. “Do I look as uncomfortable in this dress as I feel?”

“You look magnificent,” Charles assured me, “but we are probably the only couple here who don’t have a title or an honour between us.”

“Is that why we had to stand around for so long?” I demanded. “It would serve them right if they’ve already had all their jewels stolen.”

“Now, Emmy; spite doesn’t sound right coming from you.”

“Well, we were sent here to catch a thief; if Virgo has already done his work…”

“Then he – or she – will still not be able to resist your charms, Miss Walker,” Charles assured me.

“I hope you’re right. You said he was called Virgo because he always steals from debutantes and I’m hardly that. I’m too old and too poor.”

“No-one could see that you weren’t born to money,” he assured me, “and your Nana Hudson’s necklace is… peerless.”

“A legacy from the first Mrs Watson,” I explained.

“The pearls of the Great Agra treasure,” he agreed. “Remember, Emmy; I also grew up with your family’s stories. It just makes me think… What will I do if I let Virgo steal  _that_? What will I tell my father; or Dr Watson, should I ever be lucky enough to meet him. Let alone Nana Hudson.

“And you’re not old, Emmy,” he added after a moment.

I smiled and squeezed his arm gently. “We’ll do fine,” I assured him. “We’ve got Nana’s instructions, three people each to talk to. We can do this.”

He lifted his right hand to press my fingers where they lay on his arm. I was not sure which of us he was trying to reassure, but I was grateful for the effort either way.

“Alright,” I said. “Poshest voices at the ready; let’s catch a society thief.”

The first person on my list was the Honourable Archibald Fitzhugh, although why he was one of Nana Hudson’s suspects I’ll never know. He was about as clever as some of the apes in the Regent’s Park Zoo – although I’m pretty sure even they would have had a better understanding of the word no – and, given how obvious he was about getting his hands everywhere else he wouldn’t have had much luck getting them near to my pearls.

He was very pushy and perhaps  _not_  exactly as honourable as his title suggested. I’m not sure what would have happened had Charles not come to my rescue like some overzealous musketeer. His presumption irked me – it is hardly his place to step in, unasked, as though I were some helpless chit – but it  _was_  rather flattering to have somewhat step forward and defend my honour. I still gave him a telling off for it though; it wouldn’t do for him to get ideas.

Then there was the equally-Honourable Miss Camilla Cartwright. She was brighter; a fellow non-graduated student. We discussed social philosophy from our radically different perspectives and very nearly came to blows. She didn’t try to steal my pearls, and however much I might dislike her I really couldn’t see her as a thief.

Finally there was Mr Barker, an older gentleman who seemed almost as out of place at the ball as I was, but whose wife was apparently related to someone significant in the aristocracy. Rather disappointingly, he didn’t even seem to  _look_  at Nana’s pearls. It seemed as though I had drawn a blank.

I wondered if Charles had had better luck and, when I looked for him, I saw that he had. He was  _dancing_ , with his arms around some appalling upper class floozy; Lady Abigail Creasy,  _if_  he wasn’t letting his duty wander along with his eye. He was supposed to be  _my_  escort and he hadn’t even asked if I  _wanted_  to dance.

Which I didn’t, of course. Not really.

Anyway, I wasn’t about to let another presumption pass and, had the band not announced a ladies’ excuse me, I fear I might have created quite a scene. As it was, I just tapped her on the shoulder – I have a nasty feeling that I probably should have tapped on  _his_ , but one can not undo these things – and said “excuse me.”  
Charles is a good dancer; I suspect he was as surprised to learn that so was I, but universities also have balls and the steps are the same even if the shoes cost more. When the music finished he stared at me, looking thunderstruck.

“Emmy…” he began.

“Charles,” I replied demurely.

“You… You’re…”

“Yes?”

“Your necklace,” he whispered. “It’s…”

I clapped a hand to my throat. Sure enough, the string of pearls was gone.

“Lady Abigail,” he groaned.

“That little…” I would say what I called her, but my editor would doubtless disapprove almost as strongly as our fellow partygoers. Had we not been on our way out already, we would undoubtedly have been asked to leave, not so much because of what I said but because of the volume at which I said it.

We hurried out onto the steps, where we found Sergeant Parsons handing Lady Abigail into the back of a hansom with her wrists in handcuffs. That was a bit of a turn-up, and we were both a little lost for words.

“Sergeant?” Charles asked.

“We’ve got her, sir,” Parson called back. “Got your message and picked her up on the steps; she had the pearls in her bag.”

“I, uh… good work,” Charles said. “Carry on.” He shook his head as the cab pulled away. “You astonish me, Emmy,” he admitted. “I never would have known you’d spotted her. When did you send that message?”

“I didn’t,” I admitted. “I was just about to give you credit. Now I’m back to wondering  _why_  you were dancing with her if you didn’t know she was the thief.”

“I wonder who took the message,” Charles said, perhaps looking for a way to change the subject.

I looked up and down and spotted Mr Barker leaning up against the newel post at the bottom of the steps. “I think I might know,” I admitted. We walked over and accosted Barker.

He lifted his hat. “Good evening, Miss Walker; Inspector. Nana Hudson sends her regards.” And with that he walked away, leaving us looking – and feeling – rather dim.

It was my turn to shake my head in disbelief. “If she had Mr Barker covering the whole event, why bother to send us?” I wondered. “All it achieved was for you to make a fool of yourself by threatening that oaf Fitzhugh and throwing yourself at the jewel thief we were supposed to be arresting.”

“In my defence, she did most of the throwing,” he argued. “And you weren’t at your most dignified when it came to Lady Abigail,” he pointed out.

“I… Well, quite,” I allowed. “So why send us in the first place?”

Charles did not answer. He was looking at me.

“Charles?”

He kept on looking at me with those big, stupid, lovely, brown eyes of his. After a few moments I began to feel a little uneasy. There was a blush creeping up the back of my neck and I really didn’t want him to see when it reached my cheeks. What would he think? He might get the wrong idea; or worse yet, the right idea.

“Charles?” I said again. I tried to sound scolding, but failed.

Charles gave an adorable sort of half-smile; one corner of his mouth twitched upwards while the other merely tightened, almost imperceptibly, as if afraid to be noticed. “Since you managed to get us barred from the remainder of the dance, I suppose we have the evening to ourselves,” he noted. “There’s a tea shop not far from here. Would you permit me to buy you supper?”

I was momentarily taken aback, but only momentarily. I may not be as fast as Nana Hudson – yet – nor even – on this occasion – as Charles, but I usually get there sooner rather than later.


	3. Murder in Comfort

Nana Hudson waited until we were all gathered in the hotel drawing room. She sat in the largest armchair as a queen enthroned; I was, to be honest, starting to lose patience with her. Charles Lestrade stood beside her and I was starting to lose patience with him as well. This, however, was Nana’s moment, and I couldn’t really begrudge her.

“The mystery in this case surrounds the disappearance of the victim, Mr Todd, from a room that was securely locked from the inside,” she explained. “There is no question that he was killed in the gardens of the hotel, at or around six o’clock, when the other guests were at dinner. Neither is there any question as to why he was there.”

“We found a letter in Mr Todd’s pocket, asking him to meet the writer in the garden to discuss the matter of Mildred Hamble, a chambermaid who was forced to leave the hotel eighteen years ago after a complaint by Mr Todd,” Charles announced. “It was obviously a case of blackmail.”

“Oh, no,” Nana Hudson corrected. “That is quite wrong. Not the finding of the letter, but I am afraid that wasn’t why he was in the garden at that hour. He was in fact returning from his daily constitutional.”

The hotel manager, Mr Frost, frowned. “But Mr Todd was seen returning from his walk at half-past five,” he protested. “The kitchen staff saw him through the garden window.”

“Of course he was,” I realised, “just not on the night of the murder. He’d lived here for years, hadn’t he?”

“Yes, miss,” the manager agreed.

“Well then; they’d seen him so many times. It just needed one person to see  _someone_  on that path, in his coat and they’d assume it was Mr Todd.”

“But everyone saw him!”

“Yes; at some point. Once someone said they saw him on that day, however, they all remembered it.”

“Then he never came back from that outing?” Charles asked. “But then who went up the stairs in his hat and coat? Who was in the room at quarter-to-six when the Terrys called in?”

“The killer,” Nana told him.

“But then how did they get out and lock the door from inside?”

“They didn’t. They stayed inside.”

“Now, that won’t do, ma’am,” Sergeant Parsons argued. “We searched that room, top to bottom.”

Charles groaned. “Except we  _didn’t_. Who does? We were looking for a missing man when we went in, so we only looked from  _side-to-side_.”

“On top of the wardrobe,” I agreed. “There’s plenty of room to hide up there if, um…” I looked away from Charles.

“Quite,” he agreed. “No-one would notice.  _If_  you were quiet.”

“But who was the killer?” I asked, eager to change the subject. 

“Whoever wrote the letter,” Charles replied. “Someone who knew about Mildred Hamble.”

“A child?” I suggested, but I knew it was wrong before Charles shook his head. “Someone who knew there was a child and tried to blame them.” 

“Or who knew that the child could not possibly be suspected,” Charles realised. “Because Mildred Hamble’s daughter would be working in reception between three and eight.”

Jenny May gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth.

I sidled over to Charles and whispered: “How did you know?”

“She’s Todd’s heir; it took a while to track her down, but Parsons is nothing if not dogged.”

“So, the question must be, who would know,” Nana went on. “And who would benefit? Perhaps a man who had worked with Mildred Hamble when he was a boy; who knew her secrets then and who planned to marry Jenny May, knowing that Mr Todd’s heir left all his considerable fortune to Mildred’s child.”

“No!” Jenny gasped.

“Damn you!” Frost sprang to his feet and reached into his jacket.

“Parsons!” Charles snapped. He lifted his hand and Parsons slapped a truncheon into his superior’s grasp. As Frost drew a small pistol, Charles whipped his hand forward and the truncheon cracked against Frost’s wrist. The pistol dropped and I stepped quickly forward to snatch it up.

“If you would, Parsons,” Charles said, and the sergeant advanced to make the arrest. 

As Frost was led away, Charles and I turned to Nana Hudson. “Did you know that this would happen?” I accused.

“Not at all, my dears,” she assured us. “How would I? Now, Charles; don’t you have something to say to Emmy?”

“You really take the surprises out of life,” Charles sighed. “Besides; I’m not sure I should marry a woman who breaks into my hotel room to search my private letters.”

Nana laughed. “On the contrary; I doubt you would be happy with anything less. Besides, you are still taking a lot for granted.”

I took his hand. “Not too much,” I told him. “Not if he actually  _asks_.”

And, finally, he did.


End file.
